


The Bucket Drummer Boy

by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB



Category: Original Work
Genre: Buskers, Flash Fic, Gen, Homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB/pseuds/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[We] may choose to look the other way, but [we] can never say again that [we] did not know. — William Wilberforce</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bucket Drummer Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by something I saw while in Washington, D.C. a few days ago. A boy who looked to be about 12 was playing bucket drums on a street corner, his tip bucket about halfway full. I saw a couple of these drummers while there, but this boy was easily the youngest. I thought about him a lot, wondering who he was, and whether he had a home. (The homeless are all over Washington, D.C., but Union Station seems to be a popular spot for them.) I don't know this boy's story, of course, but this is one possible scenario. 
> 
> Writing prompt: Father

“Get up now, boy. _Up!”_

He gets toed gently in the stomach by a worn out shoe—the only alarm clock there is for the unhoused. He groans softly, reluctant to open his eyes to another day, which earns him a less gentle nudge to the shoulder.

“The early bird gets the worm, boy. Get up! You gotta get out there before the good spots get gone.”

 _Ugh._ If he had a dollar for every time the old man said that ‘early bird’ stuff he wouldn’t be sleeping on the grass in the morning shadows of Union Station. He’d be rich enough for a nice, air-conditioned house with his own room and a door he could lock.

“You’re not my daddy,” he blurts out in annoyance, and immediately regrets his words. He knows he deserves a good smack to the head for his smart mouth, but the old man scolds him with his usual kindness.

“I’m the closest thing to a daddy you got, boy,” he says gently. “I’m just looking out for you, for _us._ We don’t make any money today, then we eat in the shelter tonight, and you don’t want that.”

He sighs and rustles out from beneath his threadbare blanket. The old man is right; he’s _always_ right. The shelters suck. Freedom is living on the streets and making your _own_ way in the world. Freedom is working and earning your money with dignity, not begging on street corners.

The first thing he does is check to make sure his buckets are beside him. It’s the first thing he does every morning. Those old plaster buckets are the only thing keeping him and the old man in food.

“Stay far away from 10th and Constitution,” the old man says as he rolls up his blanket. “That drummer’s too good. You won’t make a dime if you’re in earshot of _him._ And stay away from the Metro, too. Guy got arrested at one of the stations the other day.”

He already knows all this, but it makes the old man happy to give him fatherly advice, so he keeps quiet. He’s already been ungrateful one time too many today. “I’m settin’ up near the Mall,” he says. “On one of the feeder streets, maybe 14th. I checked it out yesterday. Lots of foot traffic—tourists with a bunch of vacation money to throw away—and, best of all, no bucket drummers.”

The old man smiles, winks and tousles his hair. “Good boy. I’ll see what mischief _I_ can get into today to earn a few coins, then we’ll meet up here at sunset and get us a good dinner, yeah?”

He smiles and nods. The old man sometimes goes off his nut and mutters crazy stuff about the war he was in a long time ago, but most of the time he’s a decent guy. He’s protective, but a little over the top with the working thing—he can’t remember the last time he’s had a day off from drumming—but he doesn’t complain. If it weren’t for the old man, he would have starved to death a long time ago, or would have gotten found and sent back to Idaho to his _real_ daddy, who beat shit beat out of him every day for nothing. It’s not the life he would have chosen for himself, but it’s the life he’s got.

He gives the old man a fist bump, grabs his buckets and sticks and heads down Massachusetts just as the sun breaks above the trees.

 


End file.
